Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.

Super congrats to all the SAMFA winners. It was an honour to be nominated and I am still blown away that people took the trouble to vote. Many thanks!

Chapter Twenty Four

Molly had only just finished sorting out the kitchen and had set a load of bed linen going in the washing machine when the front door bell buzzed. For a brief moment, her heart jumped as she thought it might be Sherlock returning but this was immediately followed by the voice of reason asking why he would use the doorbell instead of the key code. She walked through to the hall and saw John's face in the entry phone screen. She buzzed him into the building and went to meet him at the flat door. She accepted and returned his hug, which she knew was heartfelt, and invited him into the sitting room.

'How did your chat go?' she asked, hopeful but not confident that it went well. John gave a wry shrug and shook his head.

'He wasn't in a mood to listen. He walked out and went off in a cab but,' he held up a placatory hand, as he saw her look of concern, 'I called Mycroft and he is looking for him. He said he would ring when he found him.'

'When was that?'

'About half an hour ago. He asked me to come and check on you and the boys.'

'Well, as you can see, we're still here. We haven't disappeared in a puff of smoke or anything,' she replied, with a hint of irony, walking into the kitchen to boil the kettle for tea. He followed her through and sat down at the table.

'Can you tell me what happened?' he asked, aware that, strictly speaking, it was none of his business.

Molly sat on the chair opposite, folded her arms on the table top and breathed a bewildered sigh, reviewing in her mind's eye the events of the critical time period, between the incident at Baker Street and him walking out of the flat. She had thought of little else, especially since the boys had gone to bed and there had been no distractions.

'Oh, John, I'm still trying to sort it out in my own head and when I do you'll be the first to know. I just wish I knew where he was and that he was alright.'

The kettle boiled and she went to get up and make the tea but John waved her down and saw to it himself. He hadn't mentioned his warning to Mycroft about the 'Danger Night'. But she was ahead of him.

'I know he's been clean for a long time but this is just the sort of situation that could tip him over the edge, you know.' She looked across the table and caught the pained look in John's eyes.

'Sorry, John, I forget that you didn't know him when he was using. It must be hard for you to even imagine.'

'I can't imagine it, to be honest, Molly. Even though I can see he has an addictive personality, the idea of him risking his intellect for a quick fix…..'

'Oh, it was never a quick fix for Sherlock, John. He would go for months and months without using, so long as he could keep his mind occupied, but when there was nothing to hold his attention, nothing to tax his brain, he couldn't stand it. We've talked about it, since we've been together. He says it's like being in a sensory deprivation environment. You lose your grip on reality, start to hallucinate, even. That's when he would use – to switch off his brain. I think he might want to switch off his brain right now.' That thought caused Molly to press her hands to her chest, with concern. Before John could respond, his phone gave a chirp. He pulled it out, registered Mycroft's name and opened the text.

'He's safe. Taking him home with me.'

'He's got him.' John breathed a sigh of relief and Molly closed her eyes, imagining a whole scenario behind that bald statement.

'Are you going to be OK, Molly?' he asked, reluctant to leave her alone but needing to get home to his own family.

She smiled and patted his hand.

'I will be, now, John. Thanks for coming round. Give Mary and Lily Rose my love.'

She walked him to the door and they hugged again.

'Get a good night's sleep, Moll. You look as though you need it – oh, shit! Sorry.'

She had to laugh.

'That sounds like the kind of thing I used to say!'

John smiled and then left.

ooOoo

Sherlock sat in the back of the staff car, eyes closed, shoulders hunched, arms crossed in front of him, hands gripping the front panels of his coat, pulling it tight around him like a comfort blanket. The car, travelling so smoothly on perfect suspension and with barely any engine noise, seemed to not be even moving, but for the strobing effect of the street lighting, visible through his eyelids.

Mycroft glanced at his brother with a growing sense of concern. On the bridge, he had watched him lapse into a state of complete inertia. He had seen him like this once before, at a time of extreme personal crisis. He had hoped never to see him like it again. He needed to speak to Molly, John and Mrs Hudson in order to get a clear idea of what had precipitated this emotional collapse.

But that would have to wait until the morning. Right now, the priority was to get him to a place of safety, where he could be looked after. He had taken the precaution of calling his own personal physician and arranged for him to attend Sherlock at the house, on their arrival. He would be advised by his doctor what action to take from there.

As the car pulled up outside the front of the house, at the top of the long, curved driveway, Mycroft noted the doctor's car parked to the right of the front door. He got out of the car and walked around to the other side to open the passenger door.

'Sherlock, we're here,' he said quietly. His brother opened his eyes and looked at him, blankly, then reached round very slowly to unfasten the seatbelt before climbing out of the vehicle. Mycroft took him by the arm and led him toward the front door as it was opened from the inside by Andrew, the butler.

'The doctor is waiting in your study, sir,' Andrew informed him.

'Please ask him to join us in Byron,' Mycroft replied and shepherded Sherlock straight up the stairs and across the landing to the bedroom in question. Andrew turned and went off down the hallway, to do his master's bidding.

ooOoo

Molly sat on the sofa, her legs tucked under her, trying to put together in her head exactly what had caused Sherlock to go off the way he had. She believed it was mostly down to bad timing. They had reacted to Irene's assault in completely the worst way, repeatedly doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. When they should have been comforting one another, taking the time to come to terms with what had happened, they were racing around, gathering evidence for the body double case. She had thought, at the time, he gained comfort from being able to do something proactive but, in truth, it had forced him to suppress his feelings, internalising them, to a place in his sub-conscious where they could do the most damage to his psyche.

When he gave his interview to Patrick Stoeckler, he had relived the whole dreadful incident. Even though he hadn't actually talked about that part, he couldn't avoid thinking about it, reinforcing the damage, providing no resolution. But he had done it because of the time constraints and the need to act quickly.

Confronting Irene at the airport was, in hindsight, a disasterous move. It had been so hard on him. He was in such a terrible state afterwards. The rape counsellor had commented that they did not encourage rape victims to confront their attackers, even months after the event, that the courts now recognised the traumatic nature of such confrontations and allowed victims to present their evidence by video link, so that they didn't even have to be in the same building as the culprit.

When he had, at last, told her about what happened, she felt that actually helped him but it had traumatised her. She had watched the video so that she could diminish its power over him but it had been a devastating experience for her, none the less. She believed that Irene had invented the pregnancy and abortion story, just to play with his mind. It had worked. He would never know, for sure, whether that was true or not. And the fact that he had put himself in a vulnerable situation with the woman, through his own negligence, was painful for both of them.

It should have been obvious to her, the night before, how distraught he was about being a burden to her. He had made that so clear – condemning himself for being arrogant and selfish, for taking advantage of her. If only she had picked up on those signals but she was too emotionally compromised herself. She could see, now, that blackmailing him into coming with her to the SARU appointment was a huge error of judgement. She should have known it was a step too far, particularly at that stage, when he was still so raw. He was a very private person and barely opened up to close friends, let alone a complete stranger. She knew that but her own need had over-ridden her natural empathy for him.

She saw that she had over-reacted to his comment 'I should go'. As she reviewed the actual content of the conversation prior to that, she realised he was simply expressing regret and guilt. When she had said 'Are you leaving me?' he had looked surprised. It had not even occurred to him or been his intention to 'leave', in the sense of abandonment, up to that point. He just needed to escape the immediate situation because he couldn't cope with all the conflicting emotions. She had planted that idea in his head, at a time when he was particularly vulnerable. She was convinced that, had she just let him leave, go to Baker Street, sort out his feelings and his thoughts, he would be back home by now.

It was a litany of errors.

He had accused himself of not changing enough. Didn't he realise that she didn't want him to change? She loved him for who he was. In her eyes, he was already perfect. A perfect partner, a perfect father, a perfect him. He said he used her as a security blanket. But he made her feel so safe, so loved, so appreciated. He was loyal, steadfast, devoted to her and the boys. It would have torn out his heart to contemplate leaving his family. She could not bear to think how he must be feeling now. Thank god Mycroft had found him before he did anything irretrievable.

She was desperate to know what was happening now but she knew that Sherlock's brother would ring her as soon as he could, that he would know how much she needed news. She just had to wait. And pray. Fortunately, she did not have to wait long. Her phone rang out with Mycroft's ringtone.

'Molly, how are you?'

'I'm OK, Mycroft. I just need to know that he is, too.'

The hesitation before answering did not bode well.

'Molly, he's really not well. My doctor has sedated him and says he needs complete rest for the moment. He has recommended he remain sedated for a few days.'

'Oh, god, Mycroft, I should have seen this coming, shouldn't I?'

'I will not allow you to take any blame for this, Molly. If anyone should have seen this coming, it is I. After all, I know him better than anyone. I know how he deals with extreme emotional stress – or rather how he doesn't deal with it. But this isn't the time for recriminations. We need to rally round and do the best we can to resolve this situation as quickly as possible.'

'What do you need me to do?' she asked, earnestly.

'Just be here for him, please?' There was an edge of pleading to Mycroft's voice that few people had ever heard. This was the second time that Molly had heard it. It only confirmed to her just how much he cared for his brother.

'Of course, I will. I couldn't be anywhere else.'

'You don't need to come immediately. He won't know whether you are here or not for a day or two but, after that, I think that having you and the boys around will be the best medicine possible.'

It was agreed that a car would come for them on Friday evening and that they would stay at least for the weekend and then see how things were, after that. Molly hung up, went to check that William and Freddie were sleeping soundly and then went to bed herself. The bed felt cold and over-sized, in Sherlock's absence. She hoped, fervently, that this would be a temporary state of affairs. She dragged his pillow across the bed and hugged it to her chest, pressing her face into it, breathing in the scent of his hair, his skin, his essence.

'Come back to me,' she whispered and hoped that somehow her plea would fly the distance between them and that his soul would catch it.

ooOoo